AatomBomb

MonkeyBusiness

I have to admit, the kerfuffle over the new cover of Vogue had me yawning. Yes, it was probably a very poor choice of poses, and obviously slightly offensive. But you know what, I doubt if LeBron hesitated when taking the big check they offered. I try to err on the side of not yelling racism in a crowded room if it's not absolutely necessary.

However, Gawker now gives us a revealing side-by-side look at why it's actually pretty damn offensive (or at best, derivative) after all. Even though Denton referred to him as James LeBron (hire a fact-checker dude!)

I mean, really? A giant black monkey with a German helmet and the words "mad brute"? Paging Al Sharpton...

I'm sure Wintour is so upset about all of the attention this is getting though.

ChristIsRisen...AndHungry

Best name for Easter ever, courtesy of my friend Rami: Night of the Living Dead. I think it captures the slightly ghoulish nature of celebrating the story of a misunderstood deity climbing out of a tomb to find his Father.

Meanwhile, a supernatural woman that I spent an inordinate amount of time reading and obsessing over as a child has proven to be rather blandly human after all. Anne Rice, who came closer than anyone else to making me believe in something beyond this world, has suffered from a terribly predictable mid-life spiritual reversion, literally and figuratively departing her holy stomping ground of New Orleans to spread the word of said dead prodigal son. It kind of sucks, if you will forgive the vampiric phrasing.

I spent yesterday with the boyfriend's extended family out in the woods of New Jersey. Rocco was a dream, and made the three of us seem like the most stable family unit there, oddly enough. Everyone was very sweet to me, though, which was greatly appreciated, and there was just enough redneck culture present to make me feel like I was actually home.

So Hoppy Easter, everyone! And if you see any undead hippies wandering around, be nice to them, just in case.

Joe.My.God. posts a new Chris Crocker video, consisting entirely of him blinking a few times. Over a million people have watched already. Internet performance art. Love it.

GratuitousPuppyShot

Back in the proverbial day, a friend and I would often see a particularly tragic club queen at Twilo named Asia. She must have had rather unique personality quirks that would have lent themselves to our mordant humor, but given the context of the situation we resorted to the only tool at our immediate disposal. Fat jokes. She would glide by in some form of gaudy drag, and we would gravely intone in the manner of a BBC documentary: "Asia...a large land mass." We would then crumple to the floor in fits of juvenile hysterics, and retire to the dancefloor.

Likewise, I have no doubt that the rich tapestry woven by the experiences of 1.3 billion Chinese people lends itself to insights, wit, and analysis of their complex society. But when you read these types of things it's hard to resist saying: "China...full of fucking fascists." Or something equally nuanced.

What on earth would we do without research studies? Without them, we may never have known that people who suffer from Alzheimer's have trouble with money. Coming soon: the results of a 10 year, $5 million study linking Alzheimer's to poor driving.

Holy shit. I did not see this coming. Somehow, it seems like an Obama cautionary tale. Beware the rosy glow of the anointed ones, or something. But I still hope Barack wins. Better the devil you don't know, in this case, I'm afraid.

"Yet in the teeming religious marketplace of Britain’s cities, [Adam] Smith also saw pressures that would limit the political impact of religious beliefs and prevent theocracy. With so many competing denominations, he noted, religious leaders could acquire political influence only by finding allies outside their own version of the faith—and the process of forming those alliances would drive them toward agendas that could appeal to a wider, multi-faith audience. To be politically significant, he wrote, religious extremists had to move toward broader and necessarily more-moderate coalitions. Their entry into politics would, itself, moderate them." - Walter Russell Mead, on TheAtlantic.com

ButWhoWasMoreDapper?

I got a request recently from a website asking me to add them to my blogroll. After perusing some of the lengthy archival information, I gladly did so. History of Gay Bars in New York is a treasure trove of gritty history, with a particular fondness for exposing the longtime links between New York City gay nightlife and the mafia. Makes me wonder who wore the more dapper suits, the mob or the men who frequented their bars.

Check it out, it's riveting.

EveryoneIsFamous,WhereAreTheStars?

I just wanted to share a recent piece that I did for movmnt. Enjoy:

The disease of instant celebrity in the post-pop era.

The scene: A starlet, recently freed from a grueling 72-hour ordeal, careens out of a correctional facility parking lot and dials the first coke dealer she can find in her iPhone. Nothing can slow her down now. She is pissed but giddy over the press she has received. Stupid paparazzi. And the studio keeps calling leaving threatening messages with her manager. Can’t they see she’s having a crisis? No one understands how hard it is to be in the spotlight constantly, she thinks. Of course she parties a little, everyone does. She chucks a fast food shake out the window, hitting an oncoming car. Fucking idiots. No one understands what she is going through.

The unmistakable stench of rot and decay lingers over popular culture right now. Celebrity, once the domain of an elite (and elitist) class of hand-picked talent and well crafted studio production, is now mass-produced. How did we get here? When did fame become an end unto itself? The promise of unlimited access to the means of media distribution was supposed to even the playing field, allowing the cream to rise to the top. Everyone can play; everyone can hit the jackpot; everyone can be famous. Yet the very nature of fame is corrupted by its ubiquity. It is meaningless unless there are those less famous looking up to you. You can have 6,234 friends on MySpace and never meet more than ten of them. Fame is now the crack cocaine of success – cheaper, readily available, self-destructive, and quicker to fade.

Read the whole thing here.